


I Tried to Save Myself (but my self keeps slipping away)

by hauntedd



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-Season/Series 02, probably will get Jossed in a few hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 13:54:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3770731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedd/pseuds/hauntedd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul tries to come to terms with his part in Helena's imprisonment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Tried to Save Myself (but my self keeps slipping away)

**Author's Note:**

> This will probably be countered by canon in a few hours, so I wanted to get this up before the premiere. It's Premiere Day, sestras.

He’s stopped looking at his reflection in the mirror.

When life had been merely a decision between _love of country_ or _love of a woman_ , it’d been easy to figure out which avenue to choose. He’d found himself clinging to Sarah like a dying man does absolution, his one last chance at redemption before his profession swallowed him whole. Paul’d sold information for time, and her wild heart kept beating, unaware of the true darkness in his soul. 

If he could keep her safe it would wash away his sins, his role in this conspiracy— _Beth_ —and he could be a man again. 

When the question evolved, and the paradigm shifted from _America or Sarah_ to _Sarah or Helena_ , Paul’d thought it would be simple. It was simple, at the time. 

Helena’s a murderer; Sarah is _Sarah_ and although they share a face—one that launched a thousand ships, true daughters of Leda, all—it was only Sarah he’d fight for, and Helena had made her choice long before Paul knew of either of them.

Helena destroys. Sarah survives.

When put like in those terms it is still that simple, really. Protect Sarah; sacrifice Helena. However, this does little to comfort him now that the justifications have worn thin and all he can see is Sarah’s judgement when he closes his eyes.

In the end, Paul wonders if he's protected anyone at all. It seems that all he’s done is sacrificed himself.

“Deirden, the prisoner isn’t eating.” Paul turns toward the door, his thoughts broken. It’s one of the Castor clones; Miller, he thinks. _M for military_ , but it’s hard to tell, really, when they are all shades of the same color grey. It’s still strange, being here and seeing how similar they all are, when all of the girls are so different.

Hundreds of interchangeable bodies bred for one purpose, mass produced and lacking any semblance of autonomy. The perfect ghost soldiers—he and Sammy are poor imitations in comparison. 

“And?”

“Your intelligence suggests that this is abnormal behavior for the prisoner—“

“Helena.” Paul interrupts, unable to listen to another round of them all referring to her as either _Leda_ or _the prisoner_. It’d been a policy decision to make handling her easier, to make what they were doing less objectionable, and one Paul does not agree with.

This is not _easy_ , even if it may be necessary for the project’s continued viability.

“Oh right, you have a soft spot for them—or is it a hard one?” Miller laughs and Paul meets it with a blank stare. “How many of these chicks did you go through, anyway?”

“I followed my orders.” Paul answers in non-answers, because this conversation always goes nowhere. The Castor clones are desperate for stories of the girls and how they are in bed, as if Leda is their birthright. Paul tries to ignore the possessiveness that the two on base harbor toward these women, and chooses not to understand.

His efforts are mostly successful.

“Virginia seems to think that you can get _Helena_ to eat—“

“No,” Paul interrupts. If he interacts with Helena, Paul knows that the paper thin justifications that he clings to like a lifeline will fall away into nothing.

“No? And here I thought you were all about _following orders_.”

Miller places some food down in front of Paul with a loud thump. Paul relaxes his fist and unclenches his jaw. It won’t be worth anything if he plays his whole fucking hand right here. He’s already given them too much by saying Helena’s name instead of toeing the line.

“Since none of us are sure why you’re still here, when your assignment was to simply procure the asset, why don’t you be a good boy and heel?”

Paul glares at him silently, refusing to rise to the obvious challenge. Why is he here? Paul isn’t sure—at first it had been about protecting Sarah, that he needed to go in to keep her out, and now the answer isn’t so obvious. 

Paul scowls at the thought. This is stupid; he’s made his choice and he is living with it. Paul takes the food and storms off, Miller’s laughter ringing in his ears.

The prison is rotted and rusted, and smells faintly of stale water. With all the cuts lately in DC, it’s been harder to hide Castor in the budget and so the facilities are the first to sink into disrepair. Helena’s seen worse, Paul knows.

Helena greets him with a cocked eyebrow and a smirk, as if she’s been expecting this. Expecting him. She says nothing, and Paul doesn’t feel the need for pleasantries. He did sell her out—the fuck is he supposed to say, anyway?

“I’m sorry it had to come to this.”

“You are not.” Helena spits in response and takes his apology for what it is—false. 

“You need to eat.” 

Paul threads the bag of food through the bars of the cell, careful to keep his distance. Helena’d broken one of the guards’ hands on her first day, and had been tortured for it. Paul doesn’t want to hear Helena’s screams and know that he’s the one who’d brought her more harm.

Sarah would never forgive him for it. Not that he’s sure she’d forgive him for this, even if it had been for her, in the end. It’s always for her. For Sarah.

She’s is silent for a long moment, her hands running over it reverently. Her palm lingers on the powdered donuts, but she turns away from the bag, leaving it untouched.

“I do not trust this.”

“Trust what? The food?” He knows about Henrik’s ranch. Mark had managed to file that report before running away from this, Grace Johanson in tow.

“You will eat first.” Helena demands, tearing off a piece of a donut and shoving it into his hand. “I will watch. Then, I will eat.”

“Fine.” Paul agrees and takes the dry desert and bites.

Helena’s eyes glow desperately in the shadows as her stomach growls. 

“Not drugged. Happy?”

Helena stuffs her mouth in response. Paul stands off to the side and _watches_. 

“You stay for her. For _sestra_.” Helena whispers between bites, her mouth open and covered in powdered sugar. “But you are unfaithful, Paul.”

Paul says nothing. There is nothing to say—not when there are cameras recording her every move.

“Dirty Rachel, dirty Paul—you ride her like beast.”

Paul glares at her as Helena stares back. Her accusations cut like knives and his chest constricts in spite of itself. “Sarah knows this.” 

“How—“

Paul stops himself after a second, forces Helena’s words, her accusations from worming deeper underneath his skin. How the hell does Sarah know about _Rachel_ and the lengths he went to for his country, for her? She’d accused him, yes, but he’d never confirmed it.

It’s not his worst sin, at least not now, not after this. He’d known about Castor, about the need for intelligence, that America’d been counting on him, but Paul hadn’t expected this. Then again, this is exactly what he should have expected. Castor is classified and buried deep enough that no one will find it.

Helena burps. It echoes against the walls as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. 

“You will not ride me.”

“Okay.” Paul agrees, even if he’d never been considering it in the first place.

“I tried to kill you once.” Helena states after half a pack of crackers and the third time Paul has wondered how so much food can fit into such a small space.

“What stopped you?”

It would have been better for all of you if you had, Paul thinks. Then he remembers Siobhan’s pale face as she gives him the news that Rachel’s taken Kira, taken Sarah, and he’s not sure what to believe.

Helena shrugs and Paul knows that he won’t get any additional explanation. “I killed mama; she took me from family.”

Amelia. Paul remembers Sarah telling him pieces of the story between tears, back when she’d thought Helena was dead and Paul was simply a good man in a rough situation. Now he’s not sure what he is, let alone what kind of man Sarah makes him out to be.

Paul’s afraid to find out.

“Henrik took my babies. I kill him too.” Helena smirks and leans in as if this is some secret. “He squeel like pig when I stick horse babies inside him.”

Stuck horse babies inside of him? What the hell is she going on about? Paul doesn’t want to know, so he watches as she inches away from him, pacing the cell, food bag in hand

“You took me from moyi sestry,” Helena accuses. She reaches into the bag and stuffs more food into her mouth. Helena’s teeth look like fangs as they shine against the shadows and he shudders at the feral anger in her eyes. “I did not wish to be taken.”

Helena shifts again until she is wedged against the bars, the metal pressing into her cheek and her legs folded under her as if she’s praying. She reaches a hand up toward him, but Paul finds himself stepping backward so that she can’t touch him.

“One day, I kill you all.” Helena promises, her hand shaped like a pistol as her mouth makes bullets that ring in his ears. He thinks of what’s to come as he leaves, Helena on the table, poked and prodded all in the hopes of a solution to the ailments that Castor seems to suffer like Krystal before her. They bled her until there was nothing left except ashes and a missing persons report.

Helena doesn’t deserve that fate. None of them do.

_One day, I kill you all._

Paul almost hopes that she does.

**Author's Note:**

> PS. I am late to the tumblr party, but if you want to follow me for whatever reason, [here I am](http://thewildertype.tumblr.com).


End file.
